


Dead, or Even Bone Tired

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Comfort Sex, Consensual Necrophilia, Dubious Consent, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Necrophilia, Rape Aftermath, Temporary Character Death, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: Prompto found Ignis’ body fifteen or so minutes later, abandoned in the dark, lying in a puddle of blood. He didn’t want to look closer. He didn’t need to: Ignis was dead. Very, very dead. So he swallowed down the vomit, closed his eyes, and shoved Ignis’ insides back inside him. He dragged Ignis’ body a little way over to dry ground and smashed a phoenix down over his chest.‘Hey, Iggy, buddy,’ he said, finally opening his eyes as Ignis gasped his way back to life. ‘Hey, it’s just me, you’re safe now.’





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: https://final-fantasy-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/3040.html?thread=72160#cmt72160
> 
> Any concrit is welcome; thank you for reading!

The best thing about Noct’s magic being up, despite Noct being gone — and been gone for years, and Prompto really didn’t like to think of how many because it was a lot — was that they all still had access to the armiger, and the weapons and food and clean water and curatives and everything else they stored in there. That, and the reassurance that Noct was still alive, even if he’d been gone twice as long as Prompto had been his friend for, back when.

The worst thing about Noct’s magic being up was that, since it’d been so long, lots of random people had found out they had access to all that shit, and they’d became hot targets for would-be thieves.

Prompto had more or less escaped that, since he wasn’t exactly known for being Crownsguard like Ignis and Gladio were, and anyway he was almost always with people he trusted. And Gladio looked intimidating as fuck, so people were way less likely to mess with him, whatever they thought they could get from him.

Ignis, on the other hand — not that he was weak or vulnerable or anything, but—

He could hear Ignis scream. And scream. And carry on screaming. And he only stopped, Prompto was pretty sure, because he physically couldn’t carry on. But he wasn’t silent, either. Prompto could hear him even over his own rasping breath and pounding footsteps as he ran.

Fuck. Fuck. Mother of fucking Titan’s giant titties, he could not figure out this fucking cave. He hated caves at the best of times, the long-ass winding routes and the close walls and low ceiling and the ever-present awareness that at any moment the hundred million tonnes of rock above him could come crashing down and smash him and everyone else to smithereens. How you couldn’t just decide you’d had enough and leave, no, you had to go back and make your way through it all over again, just going the opposite direction. Even now, when technically caves weren’t any more daemon infested than any other place, he hated them. He hated how Ignis’ sobs and low, gasping moans echoed around him, rose and fell with whatever they were doing to him, little shrieks and animal sounds. No words, just noises. Pauses, silences, then another gagging, gasping half-scream. It felt like hours of it, never ending, following him through the tunnels like it was hunting him and not the other way around. Echoes, bouncing, muffled, and Prompto’s footsteps through it like a metronome as he ran.

Then nothing, except the sounds he was making.

He found Ignis’ body fifteen or so minutes later, abandoned in the dark, lying in a puddle of blood. He was naked. His face, from cheekbone to temple, was caved in, like someone had put a thumb into a clay thing that hadn’t been fired yet. His hair was black with blood, congealed and goopy. If whoever’d done this had pretended to be friendly then taken him out with a crowbar to the head or something, concussion would explain why he hadn’t been able to access the armiger and defend himself, Prompto thought. He remembered that lesson from his Crownsguard training. He licked his lips, mouth dry, and tried not to think about it. Not that thinking about anything else was better.

Ignis’ arms were broken, splinters of red bone sticking out through the skin in his forearms, and worming their way out of the palms of his hands. His knees were smashed, too, just lumps in his legs — swollen, misshapen, raw in places, black bruises covered in blood. When Prompto rolled him over to see if he was alive, his guts all slumped out of his body and into the pool of his blood. It made a low, wet, sucking noise. The skin on Ignis chest was blackened and charred.

There was probably more, but Prompto didn’t want to look. He didn’t need to: Ignis was dead. Very, very dead. So he swallowed down the vomit, closed his eyes, and shoved Ignis’ insides back inside him. He dragged Ignis’ body a little way over to dry ground, and smashed a phoenix down over his chest.

‘Hey, Iggy, buddy,’ he said, finally opening his eyes as Ignis gasped his way back to life. ‘Hey, it’s just me, you’re safe now.’

It had taken Prompto a while to get used to phoenix down. Or, more likely, taken a while to get used to dying. That had sucked, especially to begin with. It always sucked — especially when death wasn’t  _ wham _ and he’s dead — but those first few times had sucked so bad they’d had to stop for the day whenever he managed to croak it, cover him in blankets and let him sit and shiver and clench his teeth so he wouldn’t make any embarrassing sounds out loud. He figured the others had already got used to dying from all that training they did (training accidents? Or was the dying the training? He didn’t ask, didn’t want to know, tried hard not to think about it), because they’d never needed to be sat down with their head between their knees while their insides tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.

Here, in the cave, Ignis gagged and swiped at Prompto. He probably wanted space, so Prompto pulled back, only to have his wrist grabbed hard. He hissed — he hadn’t been expected it, and Ignis’ fingertips were digging into his arm like he wanted to tear it off — but let himself be yanked back in.

‘Hey,’ he said again, because what the fuck did you say to someone you just revived after they’d been tortured to death? Horrifically tortured. Not that any torture wasn’t horrific, but fuck, Ignis had been — it must have been going on for ages. It hadn’t just been stabbing, or being beaten up. There’d been fire and something heavy like a hammer, and knives, and they’d even taken the effort to strip him naked, and— ‘Glad I found you, Iggy.’

His voice was dry and kinda cracked pretty much after the first word, and he swallowed. It stank of blood everywhere, and he had blood all over his hands where he’d touched Ignis. At least he’d managed to skirt around the puddle of it and hadn’t got it on his clothes or shoes or anything. Ignis was still wet with blood, smeared all over his pale skin like a painting done by an enthusiastic toddler.

‘Prompto,’ Ignis said, thick, like he was speaking through a phlegmy cold. After a moment he turned over, moved to sit on his heels, back bent, one hand still clinging to Prompto and the other braced against the floor.

The rocks couldn’t be comfortable under his bare legs, but suddenly Prompto didn’t seem to know how to speak. He put his other hand on top of Ignis’, and wondered if he ought to do anything — offer him water, clothes, say something, anything.

‘Is he—’ Ignis broke off, breathing deep. He sounded like he was drunk and trying not to throw up. ‘The man. Is—’

‘Sorry,’ Prompto said. ‘I don’t know. He was gone when I found you.’

It occurred to him, suddenly, that if this was a guy who could take out Ignis, then he ought to be really fucking terrified. Even if he’d got Ignis under false pretenses, pretended to be a friend then stabbed him in the back. Bashed him over the head. He had to be a good actor, and move fast, and be the kind of crazy ruthless daemons and wild, starving animals were, not humans.

He tried to tell himself the guy wouldn’t attack both of them. He got Iggy by surprise once, and it wouldn’t happen again. There was no way he could beat him in a fair fight, let alone both of them. So really, Prompto didn’t have anything to worry about when he knew to be careful and Ignis could recognise the dude.

Still, the idea of being trapped in a cave with someone who tortured people to death was — yeah, no. Nope.

He wondered if the guy had been trying to get Ignis to take stuff out of the armiger, potions and weapons and phoenix down. He wondered if he’d been successful. He’d taken Ignis’ clothes, even his underwear for fuck’s sake, but what else?

It was the thought of the guy standing in the dark behind him, standard horror movie shit but still enough to scare the absolute crap out of him, that made Prompto tug on Ignis’ arm. His own breathing was way too loud. What if it was so loud he didn’t hear the guy creeping up on them? ‘Hey,’ he said, and tugged on Ignis again. ‘You should get washed up, grab some new clothes, then we can leave this town behind us, babe.’

His attempt at levity fell flat. Dead flat, pun so not intended. Ignis didn’t move, other than to breathe, slow and heavy. The hairs on the back of Prompto’s neck prickled.

‘Iggy?’

Ignis stiffened, then straightened. ‘Yes,’ he said, still tightly — not quite right, but better. ‘Is there somewhere cleaner nearby? The smell here is — well.’

They went a little way down the tunnel, Ignis pulling out an old towel to wrap around himself for at least a little dignity, not that there was anyone other than Prompto there to see, and not like Prompto hadn’t seen Ignis naked before plenty of times, and much closer up than this. Still, whatever, it wasn’t like Prompto would be happy walking about buck naked in a cave, either, even if he wasn’t dripping blood, and hadn’t just been— 

Had the guy stripped Ignis before or after he’d tortured him to death? It had to be before, right, at least mostly, because the way Ignis’ stomach had been sliced right open, and what was the point of slicing up clothes you were about to steal? And the way his arms had been broken — and blood was a bitch to wash out even in black fabric, so—

Turned out there was a haven only a few hundred feet down the tunnel, the one they’d stayed at the previous night. Prompto hadn’t remembered the route, but apparently Ignis had. Prompto was abruptly, breathlessly glad for it. They washed their hands a little way to the side, Ignis washing his feet and face as well, and Prompto stayed next to him even though it wasn’t like Ignis needed help scrubbing under his fingernails and between his toes. It was only so they didn’t get blood everywhere when setting things up, namely the fire for hot water, so it wasn’t as if they had to be sparkling clean. But okay, Prompto knew, Ignis wanted to be clean as possible, that was understandable. He just wished he’d hurry up, because it was dark and he really just wanted to be on the haven, and the splashing water meant it was harder to listen for people approaching.

Then, finally, Ignis was done, and Prompto clambered up onto the haven, fervently glad for its presence even knowing it was useless against human murderers. Something about havens just felt safe. And there was no way the same guy would come back and attack them both, and even if he did they’d be more than able to defend themselves. They set up camp, wordlessly, and Prompto felt himself start to relax. Pots on the fire for water so Ignis could wash properly, lights, chairs, some food that Prompto pulled out because even if Ignis didn’t want to eat, Prompto could see how pale he was, fumbling with the fold out chairs, clumsy. No sleeping mats or bags, because he was pretty sure neither of them wanted to sleep down here.

Though they wouldn’t be back in Lestallum for days, and sleeping together outside wasn’t technically better even if it’d feel better.

‘Hey,’ Prompto said, before he actually thought of something to say, because he just wanted to break the silence. He turned to look for Ignis, a chocolate bar in one hand, a granola bar in the other. 

Ignis was crouched by the campfire, not doing anything. His hand was hovering over the water that they’d set up over the flames, but Prompto wasn’t sure he was feeling the heat coming off it.

‘Iggy?’

Ignis didn’t respond. He didn’t even move. The water was steaming gently under his hand.

Prompto stood there, the granola bar raised awkwardly up at chest level. He lowered it, slowly. He couldn’t see Ignis’ face from this angle, but even then Ignis had a great poker face, so it wouldn’t have given away much anyway. Should he call him again? Or let him get on with… thinking, or zoning out, or whatever he was doing.

He was just about to sit and clean his guns, not that they needed it really but it was something to do, when Ignis’ head reared back a little. ‘Prompto,’ he said, bland enough to be terrifying. ‘I need to--’

Standing up, Ignis cocked his head. ‘I’m assuming we’re alone, yes?’

‘Oh, uh -- yeah. No one but us.’

Ignis unwound the towel from his hips, and stood with his legs a little splayed, a little awkward, stiff and off balance. He was facing mostly towards Prompto, but he dipped his head, and put a hand behind him. It took Prompto a second to realise he was touching between his legs, his ass, and his mouth was flattened and eyebrows furrowed.

He took away his hand, and showed it to Prompto. ‘Is this blood--’ he said, and the trailing end to his sentence told Prompto that he already knew it wasn’t.

His fingertips were wet, slick with a pale coloured fluid, thick and viscous.

Prompto didn’t say anything. His throat had got stuck, not working, like a stick in a bicycle wheel.

‘Oh,’ Ignis said, holding out his hand like he had something in it he wanted to drop. He made a sound, the start of another word, but it didn’t come out. He reached for the towel he still had in his other hand, and turned, dipping the corner in the water that was now steaming a lot, almost simmering. Ignis wiped his hand with the towel, neatly at first, then rough, then stopped, abruptly. He reached back and carefully wiped his ass, and Prompto couldn’t stop himself from watching the way he lifted one foot very slightly, balancing on the ball of his foot to separate his legs a little further. He didn’t, Prompto saw, actually try to clean inside himself. Which was — it was—

He hadn’t realised. He hadn’t known the guy had raped him, too. Had — was it memory loss? With the head injury? Or had—

‘I don’t remember it,’ Ignis said, as if reading Prompto’s thoughts, and Prompto twitched guiltily. ‘I remember everything. I remember dying, I’m certain of it.’

‘But you don’t remember that,’ Prompto said, a croak, weak and feeble next to Ignis’ careful, clear voice.

‘No.’

And what the fuck was the answer to that? Was it a good thing? That he didn’t remember, that he didn’t have the memories to haunt him? Only he had the knowledge anyway and that was enough, and maybe it was worse because fuck that thought, someone killing you and stripping you and fucking your dead, mutilated body—

‘Fuck,’ Prompto said, without meaning to, then when he tried to shut his mouth only managed to make another sound, wordless, like someone had punched him in the back.

Ignis didn’t reply, only pulled out his laundry bag from the armiger and tucked the towel inside. He pushed it back into the armiger, dropping it down into it, and Prompto could almost see it fall into the ether, disappearing in a trail of blue.

What should he say? What should he do? Inside him, the fluttering, useless anxiety twisted his guts about whether to do something or nothing or offer him more water and Prompto’s own, clean towel to wash with, soap and antiseptic? Why would he need antiseptic? And clothes and blankets and hot drinks — and beyond that, a sudden, bright rage beating hard in his chest. Some man, some fucking — someone had tortured Ignis, killed him, and raped his dead body.

Prompto wanted — suddenly he wanted that man to come back, to stumble in on them as they were now. He wanted him to come running to the haven, chased by daemons, so Prompto could deny him entry, force him away — with his guns, bullets through his hands as he tried to climb up — and watch as he was torn to fucking shreds. Prompto wanted to watch  _ him _ die and know he could bring him back with phoenix down if he wanted to, only he didn’t want to, and he wouldn’t. His eyes were prickling with useless, furious tears, stinging inside his skull.

He wanted — he wanted — he wanted to find him and beat him up with his bare hands. He wanted to trick him into thinking Prompto was an easy victim, and then turn around and gut  _ him. _ Cut off his dick and choke him with it. See how he liked — how he—

It burnt, like a fever, hot like a bruise in his chest. Fuck. Fuck. He could feel his limbs vibrate with it. He wanted to — he needed to—

He needed to focus on Ignis. He wanted Ignis to be okay.

Ignis had gone to crouch by the edge of the haven, on a little section where the ground tilted down and the water ought to run off and not make a big mess everywhere, though how he’d found it in the first place Prompto didn’t know. He’d set up a system of buckets of water, though Prompto couldn’t tell what each were for. He was not, Prompto saw as he stood there and watched, doing anything about between his legs or anything, his ass where the guy’s come had been — was still there, inside him, dripping out—

Ignis wasn’t making a big deal out of it. That meant Prompto shouldn’t either, right? Or should Prompto make a big deal out of it  _ because _ Ignis wasn’t?

Twisting his fingers, scraping the side of the armiger, Ignis pulled out a washcloth and dipped it in what Prompto guessed was the bucket for clean water. He wrung it out and ran it over his face and neck, wetting his hair down, turning it darker and flattened backwards over the top of his skull. He ran the cloth over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, the hollows and dips of his collarbones. Then he rinsed the washcloth in — presumably — the second cleanest water bucket to smooth down over his chest, still dripping. His nipples were hard, wet. His abs were standing out in stark definition. Prompto could see every small scar, and every large one, too — the splashes of dull, red flesh crawling up his arm, over his chest, across one hip, like his skin was wrapping paper someone had tried to tear off.

He didn’t look like he’d just been tortured and raped and killed. Tortured and killed and raped. His face was neutral. There’s wasn’t anything hurried or abrupt or out of character in how he moved. He was washing his stomach and sides now, reaching around to get to the small of his back. And he was flexible enough; he was Iggy, of course he was flexible enough, but something made Prompto make a noise. Clearing his throat, enough to make Ignis pause for a second, and then Prompto couldn’t back out.

‘D’you want me to do your back?’

A slight pause.

‘Thank you, that would be appreciated.’

In any other scenario it’d be the perfect opportunity for a sleazy pick-up line, to drag Ignis somewhere more private and press himself against the muscled planes of Ignis’ back, nip his shoulders and rut against him, hands sneaking around to fondle his dick.

As it was, Ignis flinched when Prompto touched his shoulder, even though he could have heard Prompto approaching from a mile off. And even if he hadn’t, Prompto thought he’d rather fuck a cactuar than try it on with Ignis.

Prompto took the washcloth from him and rinsed it out in the bucket again, and that probably screwed with whatever clean water system Ignis had going but honestly he couldn’t care. He had to use up all his caring on making sure he was doing the right thing and silently panicking that he wasn’t and where was acceptable to touch? Ignis’ shoulders, okay, and his back down to the base of his ribcage, but his lower back? Was that too low down? And would Ignis tell him to stop or just make himself go through with it? Could Prompto clean his ass? Was that why Ignis had been not doing it, that he wanted someone else he trusted — Prompto, there was only Prompto here — to do it for him?

He could feel the goosebumps on Ignis’ skin, though he wasn’t shivering. His back was broad across the shoulders, solid muscle, slimming down to a trim, narrow waist. His ribcage rose and fell with his even, slow breathing. Prompto had kind of hoped Ignis would relax under his touch; he didn’t.

‘D’you,’ Prompto said, and had to clear his throat awkwardly to try again. ‘Did you want me to wash… down there. Um.’

It took Ignis a moment to respond. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ he said, slightly hoarse, and shifted so he was balancing on his knees as well as the balls of his feet, hands braced against his thighs, legs spread. ‘Ah, if you could keep a watch out for anyone coming our way, also. I wouldn’t want to… the view must be…’

There was a pun in there somewhere, Prompto thought, or at least some kind of dirty joke, as he rinsed out the washcloth again and let his hand rest, gently, on Ignis shoulder. He couldn’t find one, though, and if Ignis had one he wasn’t going to say it. Prompto’s other hand, with the cloth, smoothed down Ignis’ back until it reached the curve of his ass. Ignis wasn’t exactly Gladio, with an ass you could ping bullets off, but he was still built like some kind of marble statue, the kind where nakedness wasn’t dirty, it was art.

And it wasn’t like Prompto was unfamiliar with Ignis’ ass, not like he was treading unknown waters, because he’d literally had his face down there eating Ignis out, sixteen or so hours ago. He’d got Ignis all loose and slick and hotdogged him, sliding his dick between Ignis’ ass cheeks while Ignis had panted and moaned and rocked his hips back, desperate for that wet friction against his hot, open hole. And then Prompto had pushed him down by the shoulders as he’d fucked him, slammed his hips into Ignis’, thrusting hard and fast and scraping Ignis’ knees up on the stone of the haven, and shouting as he’d came, emptying his balls deep inside him.

Like the guy had done, probably about half an hour ago.

The amount of water running down Ignis’ back meant that if there’d been more come dripping out of him, it wasn’t visible. It might still be there, though, diluted, running all down Ignis’ legs and dick and getting on his feet he’d literally scrubbed clean ten minutes ago.

He didn’t want it on his hands, that guy’s come. He wanted it on Ignis even less, so he wiped down Ignis’ ass and rinsed the cloth in the third bucket, because yeah, he wasn’t putting it in the clean or slightly clean water now. Ignis’ skin shivered under his hand as he got the cloth back on him, like a chocobo twitching to get something off its feathers, but didn’t otherwise move as Prompto wiped over his hole, rinsed the cloth, wiped his balls and dick, another rinse, wiped the insides of his thighs. Then he ditched the cloth and got a new one, and put more water on to heat. He came round the front of Ignis to wipe down him from that angle, too, because why the fuck not. Ignis’ hands found his shoulders, and Prompto liked to think he was doing it because it was comforting, but it was probably more likely he just needed to balance as he stretched out one leg then the other for Prompto to clean.

His knees were getting wet; his pants were sticking to him, warm then cooling quickly in the cold air. He had no idea how Ignis wasn’t freezing to death.

The laundry bag was with all of Ignis’ stuff, and Prompto didn’t want to rifle through it all, so he just balled the dirty washcloths and tossed them on the floor to deal with later. They landed with a wet slap, loud enough to echo. For a moment Prompto waited, expecting Ignis to say something about it, but he didn’t.

The fresh water wasn’t quite hot, but it was warmer than Ignis was going to be, standing around naked and damp, so Prompto got yet another clean cloth — actually one of the dish towels but oh well — and wetted it, starting on Ignis’s back, going over him from the start. He wasn’t quite sure how many times he ought to do it, and how long it’d take for Ignis to be clean versus how long to feel clean. There was a clean spring earlier on in the caves that they’d filled their water containers with, so it wasn’t like they were going to run out of that any time soon. 

‘Tell me,’ Prompto said, a thick mutter, as he moved slowly down Ignis’ back, ‘if you’re getting too cold and wanna stop and get dressed.’

‘Of course,’ Ignis said, but Prompto was pretty sure he was lying.


	2. Chapter 2

They were curled up together on the haven, and it would’ve been romantic as fuck if not for the fact that there weren’t any stars to lie under, and also how Ignis was stiff and silent since he’d just been tortured to death then raped while dead, and only realising it because he had come dripping out of his ass.

It wasn’t even night time — Prompto’s phone said 9:23am. But they’d just got out of that cave and they’d driven several hours without needing to, other than to put physical distance between them and what’d happened, and they’d ended up at this haven.

They’d had to fight some goblins, and Prompto was sore from falling on a baseball sized rock, sticking out of the otherwise featureless ground just for him to land on. Ignis wasn’t hurt, he didn’t think. He hadn’t seen Ignis get hurt and he wasn’t limping or bloodied or anything, and he didn’t flinch or anything when Prompto wrapped him up in his arms as they lay down. So he hoped he wasn’t hurt. He’d sort of hoped that the fight would give Ignis something to work out some of the — rage? Lack of control? Some emotion — he had to be feeling, but given how Ignis was now, breathing ragged and tensed up, maybe it hadn’t. He’d let go of Ignis, give him some space, only Ignis’ hand was curled up into a fist, inside it a handful of Prompto’s pants.

He was trembling; Prompto could feel it down the length of his body. His eye was pressed shut. His mouth was a thin line, and it was hard to see in the lack of light but Prompto kinda thought it looked like his jaw was tensed hard enough to chip teeth.

Instead of making up the tent — it wasn’t too cold or windy, it wasn’t going to rain, and also Gladio wasn’t there to ride their asses about it — Prompto had just laid down the undersheet and piled the bedding on top of it in one messy lump. He’d hoped Ignis would be indignant and make him redo it, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d let Prompto touch his shoulders and pull him down, take off his shoes and belt and visor, and cover them both up with a blanket as they lay together on the disaster of a campsite.

At least the fire was going strong. It was warm, and a good level of warm, too, with Ignis pressed against his front and the fire at his back. He wouldn’t fall asleep, though. Ignis needed him to stay up and keep watch. So that’s what he was doing, even if he was pretty sure Ignis wasn’t about to fall asleep and be caught off guard any time soon either.

The sound of the wind and fire and a few bugs was all there was, if Prompto wasn’t counting Ignis’ harsh breathing. Prompto listening to it and wondered if he ought to say something, break the quiet. They hadn’t talked about what’d happened. They hadn’t talked about any of it. Not that Prompto wanted to hear, but he was pretty sure talking about things was a good way to get over them, or at least start getting over them. But he couldn’t make Ignis speak. He couldn’t even ask him to. Even if he knew Ignis wanted to talk, wanted him to ask, he didn’t think he could.

He was too old for this. He was 30 in a few weeks, for fuck’s sake. He was way, way, way too old for this.

Way too old and still not old enough. He wished he had someone to tell him what to do. Ignis would have been perfect.

Ignis tensed up in his arms, apparently at nothing, a tiny little spasm, and forced out a harsh, tight exhale. Then he relaxed, but only a little, only enough to return him to the stiff, unresponsive state that he’d been in before, like a mannequin in Prompto’s arms.

The endless, blank black sky spun above them. The haven runes pulsed their gentle, sacred light. The fire burnt down. After a few hours Prompto pulled out his arm from under the blankets and tossed another log onto it; at the motion Ignis tensed. From the pull against his leg, Prompto could tell he was gripping his pants harder, tighter.

Should he try reassure Ignis? Should he say… he was sorry? That he’d never let it happen again? What the fuck use were either of those things?

What else could he say, when Ignis was back to panting out harsh, uneven little breaths through gritted teeth, like he were in agony? Was he in agony? Had the phoenix down not been enough to heal him properly? But if Ignis hadn’t said anything yet he wasn’t exactly going to admit to it now. He’d just suck it up and deal with it, like he had when he’d burnt his hand and just put a glove on to hide it. And it’d got infected and then it’d got gangrene, and for a hot moment there’d been a non-zero risk of needing to amputate his whole stupid hand right off.

Slowly, the fire burnt down again. It was probably around early afternoon. Maybe they ought to cut this trip short and go back to Lestallum. Or they could go to the nearest outpost, have them radio Lestallum for patrol rotas, and go find Gladio.

Ignis would appreciate that, right? He’d feel safer with Gladio there with them, more so than he would in Lestallum. Or maybe he’d feel safer with Gladio instead of him. Not like he’d been any use in actually stopping things happening.

What if it happened again? What if the guy came back?

Eventually, after the fire had to be stoked back up another couple of times, Prompto fell into a doze; not asleep, but not quite awake either. He startled fully awake suddenly, though he couldn’t say why, his head shooting up fast enough to crick his neck. Ignis was sitting beside him, half slouched in the pile up of blankets and sleeping bags and pillows. His head was up so he was awake, but his good eye was closed. He’d stopped shaking. His breathing looked and sounded more or less normal.

Prompto opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. What was there to say? The urge to say something, anything, was bubbling up, swelling inside him, and he knew himself well enough to know it’d soon come bursting out in bright over-confidence, aggressively blasé. Words like fireworks when he opened his mouth, no clue whether they’d be beautiful or whether they’d explode in someone’s face.

It took a while to realise Ignis no longer had a death grip on his pants — or anywhere, for that matter. Prompto shifted, partly because he wanted Ignis to know for sure he was awake, partly because there was a lump of something poking into his kidney, and partly in awkward realisation that he wanted Ignis holding on to him. He wanted to be Ignis’ lifeline, protector, someone who helped Ignis and was useful to him. Wanted by him. Needed.

And that wasn’t creepy of him, nope, not at all.

Prompto looked away.

‘Did you sleep well?’ There wasn’t any insult in Ignis’ voice, no sarcasm or wit about Prompto having not stayed awake when he should have. Prompto glanced at him; Ignis' eye was open, but he hadn't put on his visor. His eye was a little off, and the scar tissue reddened and maybe kinda swollen, but that always happened when there was dust and bits of shit getting everywhere, out camping and travelling. It didn’t mean anything.

‘Uh, yeah,’ Prompto said, even though he hadn’t, wasn't rested at all, just achy and tired and with a sore neck and back to boot. ‘Did you, um, want to head back to Lestallum?’

‘No,’ Ignis said, which — yeah, that hadn’t been the answer Prompto had expected, but okay, he could work with it.

‘Cool. Where to next, then?’

Because they out were doing research, Ignis following leads all across pretty much everywhere, and Prompto didn’t really get what, exactly, he was trying to find, but if it helped them and helped Noct he wasn’t going to question it. Even when he was pretty sure by now, nine years on and the sun and Noct and the world before it felt more like a movie he hadn’t watched in a decade than reality, it was hopeless and only Ignis’ inability to give up — give up on Noct — that kept them going. 

Not that he was going to admit it. Not to anyone. Especially not Ignis.

Which just made Prompto think about their trip through Gralea after Noct had gone into the crystal, and the labs and the clones and all the things he’d found out about himself, that maybe it’d be better he never told Noct about. Sure, Ignis and Gladio had taken the discovery well, but… if Noct was only going to come back just to die, maybe it’d be best he never told him. Made his last days as problem free as possible. No point in making anything more painful than it needed to be. He wouldn’t burden Noct’s last day to try find closure for himself.

If he ever got the opportunity to tell Noct at all. Because he sure was taking his time returning.

Or maybe Ignis was right. Fuck; by now, Prompto was tired enough he was spinning back round to hope, just because it was easier to hope when Ignis told him to hope. Ignis was good like that.

Lying beside him, Ignis wasn’t saying anything. Maybe they’d head back to Lestallum after all. Recoup. Prompto could find someone to speak to — not to say anything incriminating or anything, probably just imply it was daemons and just a particularly grisly daemon related death, almost everyone had one or two stories like that — but at least he’d get to offload something. Maybe Ignis would get to speak to someone, too. Someone who hadn’t failed protecting him.

Gladio or Iris, probably. Cor. Fuck, maybe even Ravus. The last couple of years Ignis had been working with Ravus so closely Prompto might’ve been jealous if not for the fact it was, well, Ravus.

Instead of replying Ignis started clearing up Prompto’s rubbish attempt at a bed, then pulled Prompto up so they could sit and eat the assortment of things Prompto dug up from the armiger that didn’t need cooking. And after that — they didn’t go back to Lestallum. They didn’t even go kill the Ziggurat that started creeping round the haven before wandering off into the dark. They ended up staying put all day. After a few hours Ignis started getting things set up properly, cooking station and tent, and making proper beds inside it. So they settled back down for the night — actual night this time — and Prompto wrapped Ignis back up in his arms, and Ignis turned to face him.

They kissed, soft and close-mouthed at first, gradually deepening. The sort of gradual that should’ve been making Prompto squirm with impatience, since he wasn’t dead or even bone tired or anything. It was just — he wasn’t into it so much, and anyway, he wasn’t sure how much they ought to be doing anything at all, but he figured it’d be best to let Ignis lead and trust him to know his limits, right? Which was pretty fucking stupid, he thought, as the kissing got past the point where he didn’t really feel up to it and instead went direct to his dick. He panted and clutched at Ignis’ shoulders as Ignis undid his shirt, kissing and nipping and sucking soft bruises all the way down Prompto’s chest. It was stupid waiting for Ignis to stop, because Ignis didn’t know how to stop. Not for his own sake. Barely for anyone else’s.

He wasn’t going to stop, Prompto knew, as Ignis undid his trousers and tugged them down his hips, mouthing at the inches of skin he exposed, hot and wet. And Prompto was fucking weak because he still felt a little queasy about it all and Ignis was almost definitely doing this too soon, but he couldn’t stop Ignis. He couldn’t stop Ignis if Ignis wanted him this badly. He couldn’t not let Ignis worship his body — with his mouth and hands and breathy groans onto Prompto’s damp skin, lavishing every bit of him like he were something sacred. Like he were the only thing in the world that mattered, and his terrifying single-mindedness and intensity of devotion that drove him focused down to a needle-point, scraping over Prompto’s skin like a straight razor, and it broke and remade something in Prompto over and over and over again.

So — so there was something wrong and Ignis was probably pushing himself too far and probably Prompto, too, because he couldn’t stop thinking about how Ignis’ guts felt in his hands or just how dead Ignis had been before the guy had started fucking him, and whether it mattered, and why, because holy fuck it mattered so much—

But he couldn’t stop Ignis. Not when Ignis’ mouth was sucking little bruises onto the soft, sensitive junction between Prompto’s thigh and hip, teasing, light and then not, weaving arousal around the skittish pain of his teeth. His fingers were caressing Prompto’s waist with one hand, up and down from armpit to hip, over his chest to touch his nipples, and with the other, cradling Prompto’s erection, rubbing his thumb so fucking gently along the base of it. He was moaning into Prompto’s skin, more vibration than noise, and his mouth kept moving and bruising Prompto’s skin, across his hips and low on his belly and down his thighs, spreading Prompto’s legs with his hands so he could press his lips and tongue and teeth against the tender skin of Prompto’s flanks.

‘Please,’ Prompto said, gasping it as his dick brushed the side of Ignis’ face — and he was hard, so fucking hard he hurt, balls all drawn up and throbbing, aching, dick leaking precome that Ignis tenderly smeared across the head of his dick with the rough pad of his thumb. ‘Please, Ignis, Iggy, Iggy, please, pleasepleaseplease—’

Afterwards, Ignis didn’t let Prompto reciprocate, or not much — just a shitty, shakey handjob — and Prompto didn’t push it. Maybe he should have, he thought, curled up inside the curve of Ignis’ body as they lay together, skin prickling with drying sweat. It was pretty convenient he had no problem with letting Ignis fuck him stupid, but when it came to payback, pushing past Ignis’ walls was suddenly too hard.

They probably shouldn’t have done any of that. Not so soon after—

Maybe they should go back to Lestallum.

‘Iggy,’ Prompto said. Ignis’ arm, where it was curled possessively over his waist, fingertips touching his chest, shifted a little. He hummed, low and gentle vibration that tickled the back of Prompto’s neck. When he squirmed, Ignis held on tighter.

‘Yes?’

‘Hey, d’you think we should go back? To Lestallum, or Hammerhead, or somewhere. We could find Gladio.’

‘No.’ The answer came immediate, short and sharp, a puff of hot air against Prompto’s skin. Prompto very almost flinched.

‘I just mean,’ Prompto said, and had to trail off when he found he didn’t actually know what he meant, or at least not the words to say it.

‘No,’ Ignis said again, less harsh but more firm. ‘I know what you’re trying to do for me, and I appreciate it, but I don’t need to stop now. The very opposite: we’re running out of time and I need to not stop. I’m not going to let what happened take me away from this. From Noct.’

And what was there he could say to that? If it were helping Noct — okay, he’d power through it. Like he’d been powering through all of this, for so many years now.

But what if all of it wasn’t for anything and Noct was going to die like the visions and the prophecy said, and they’d spent all these years fucking themselves over and not being happy and nothing was going to change?

Then he felt bad for feeling that, but... it’d been such a long time ago, him being friends with Noct, his parents, Insomnia, Crownsguard training, driving in the Regalia. A decade of fighting and fighting and wanting Noct back but not getting him back. He missed him still, but an old ache, no longer fresh; like one of Ignis’ scars that had risen up on his skin a year or so after Noct had healed him, growing over his dull left eye.

He wanted to be happy. He was so tired of grieving.

How much longer would it go on for? Even if Noct came back, how did they know it wouldn’t be in fifty years’ time? A hundred? He wanted to tell Ignis,  _ you’re okay but please can we go back for my sake? _ He just didn’t know if Ignis would go back for his sake, or if he’d carry on for Noct’s.

‘Okay, we carry on,’ he said, and let Ignis pull him a little closer, slotting them together, Ignis’ ankles between his cold feet.

He still didn’t know what Ignis was doing. Something involving Ravus and magic and loopholes in ancient texts — he didn’t know — but the guilt for doubting Ignis, for not grabbing for even the slightest chance it’d help Noct, meant he didn’t say anything more to object to it.

He’d carry on. He’d believe in Ignis. Believe in Noct.

Ignis’ devotion made him burn with shame.


End file.
